


If you need a little heat in your face, that's what I'm here for

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol, Crack, Drunkenness, Gen, Humor, Ridiculous intoxicated Elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celebrimbor is drunk, but at least he's in good company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If you need a little heat in your face, that's what I'm here for

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. This happened because Silje and I were speculating about what certain members of the House of Finwe would be like drunk. And once I could breathe for laughing again, I got the whole Nargothrond Breakfast Club shwasted, just to see. I thought it would be appropriate to post the least serious thing I’ve ever written on my birthday <3 Kind of my equivalent of partying with y’all.

Celebrimbor stumbled and grabbed for Celegorm’s shoulder. He’d slammed his leg rather hard into a stump, and Celegorm looked at him skeptically as he hauled his nephew upright against his side, but Celebrimbor was laughing immoderately.

“You all right there, boy?”

“I am ALL the right!” Celebrimbor chortled again. “But sometimes left, just a bit. Have you ever – do you ever – have you ever wondered – ”

Celegorm rolled his eyes and tugged Celebrimbor around a young sapling his nephew looked ready to embrace.

“Have I ever wondered what?”

“If…if…” Celebrimbor’s eyes drifted out of focus. “Do hammers have feelings?”

“Sweet dribbling Manwe.”

“If they do, do they forgive me for the con – conc – concussivenessosity?” Celebrimbor asked earnestly, digging his fingers into Celegorm’s tunic, dragging himself up to stare into his face.

Celegorm winced; Celebrimbor’s hands were smith-strong, even when he was this far gone, and his shoulder would be bruised come morning. “Just keep walking, will you? Some of us haven’t partaken of a full cask of Dwarven ale and would like to get back to the keep and start work at catching up with you.”

“I hope they do.”

“Who do?”

“Hammers. Forgive me. Do they? Because, Tyelkormoromo, I love them so much. Do they know that I love them?” Celebrimbor threw his arms wide, wobbling as he released Celegorm’s shoulder. “HAMMERS. They are so  _wonderful._ ”

“Eru bloody Iluvatar, keep WALKING.”

Celebrimbor took Celegorm’s arm again, and let himself be towed along agreeably, beaming at the mushrooms sprouting from the forest floor. “Lookit them. Mushrums. Rushmoors. I love them.”

“Have you been eating them? Any funny spotted ones, maybe?”

“Look!” cried Celebrimbor, so abruptly that Celegorm froze. “A deer.” His pointing finger wobbled and dipped as he gestured to the trees. “Is it one of your friends?”

Celegorm spared it a glance. “Yes, sweetheart, that’s one of my friends. And you’re bellowing drunk on its doorstep, so if you wouldn’t mind hurrying up…”

“Oh, goodness,” said Celebrimbor in a stage whisper. “I am so sorry. How rude of me. Sorry, Lord Deer,” he called, still in a stage whisper, and Celegorm gave up and threw his nephew – who was not at all slight of build – over his shoulder with a grunt and tromped off. “Lord Deer, I am sorry! And will you tell the hammers I am sorry too?”

“That was a lady deer,” muttered Celegorm. “You daft creature, how on earth are you Curvo’s spawn?”

Celebrimbor yawned and snuggled his cheek against Celegorm’s low back. “I love you.”

“Yes, right. Me, the hammers, the mushrooms, and the deer. We are a select group.” Celegorm gave a sigh of relief as the lights of Nargothrond finally hove into view. “Praise the Horn. I was just starting to wish I’d left you passed out in the Narog, whelp.” He adjusted his grip and Celebrimbor giggled softly into his tunic. “Next time, mind, I am leaving you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Curufin stalked down the hall – or tried to. The wine had been good, and undiluted, and Finrod had been very diligent about keeping his glass full, and his usual crisp stride was feeling a little wobbly around the edges.

“Can’t even stalk right,” he announced, to no one in particular, his expression black. “Typical.”

“You surely don’t have to stalk this quickly, either way,” said a mild voice at his elbow, and Curufin jerked his head around as Finrod laid a warm hand on the small of his back.

“What you don’t understand,” he said sharply, drawing his brows together, as Finrod hummed and navigated them both around a statue Curufin was about to collide with, his trajectory having skewed slightly. “What you don’t understand is that this is just the latest in a string of disappointments.”

“That string including?” asked Finrod politely, keeping his hand on Curufin’s back.

“Many things.” Curufin narrowed his eyes at him as Finrod’s hand strayed lower. “You get very handsy when you’re embarrassingly drunk.”

“You complain about this when I’m sober, too. And should you really be so blithely throwing around words like ‘embarrassingly drunk’, when you’re in this state? Hypocritical, I’d call it.”

“Life, Findaráto, is nothing but disappointment,” said Curufin bleakly, and Finrod sighed. “The wine goes sour. The bloom falls from the rose. The apple falls too far from the tree. Promises turn to ash. The apprentice disappoints the master. And I,” his eyes slipped out of focus, “I will never live up to my father.”

“Oh, Eru.” Finrod slipped an arm around Curufin’s waist and steered him around the corner. “Isn’t it a bit…late, to be speaking of – ”

“Death,” said Curufin deliberately, “is inevitable.”

Finrod lifted his eyes heavenward.

“But,” said Curufin, who was now, he had to admit even to himself, hanging rather heavily off Finrod’s shoulder, “but.”

“But?”

“Those were excellent grapes.”

Finrod fumbled with a doorknob, his graceless movements betraying his own intoxicated state.

“Excellent,” mused Curufin. “So…piquant. Were they fresh?”

Ignoring him, Finrod finally got the door open, and they both half stepped, half stumbled, into the room, nearly falling headlong over a body lying across the doorway.

Finrod let out an exclamation and clutched at Curufin’s arm. “Who’s that?”

“Death,” said Curufin, his face grim, “is a certainty, Felagund.”

Finrod leaned down unsteadily and rolled over the body. It was Celebrimbor, sound asleep and rather the worse for wear, with –

“What is that?” said Curufin sharply, pulling himself from his reverie. “What is that on my son’s face? That is my son, right?” he said under his breath, elbowing Finrod.

“Oh, ‘ello, you two,” said a languorous voice from the hearth. Celegorm rolled over and got heavily to his feet, a goblet in his hand. “Aye. Tha’s Tyelpe. Can’t hold his liquor worth a damn. Not like me ‘n’ you, Curvo.” He drained the goblet, tossing his head back, and nearly overbalanced.

“Face,” said Curufin, and pointed with the toe of his boot. “What is on my son’s face? Death, you know,” he said quietly, “comes sooner to some than – ”

“It appears to be male genitalia.” Finrod crouched down and examined Celebrimbor curiously. “Rather crudely drawn, too.”

“WHO,” demanded Curufin, “COULD HAVE SO DEFILED THE SCION OF THE HOUSE OF FËANOR?”

Celegorm tried to look innocent, and Finrod reached up to pluck a quill from behind his ear. “I think we found our culprit.”

“Naww,” said Celegorm, squinting at Finrod. “Nah me. Never.”

Finrod was studying Celebrimbor’s face again, now with a pained expression. “Tyelkormo, honestly…”

“You gotta problem, Felegund?” Celegorm draped an arm around Curufin, who just muttered, “Everlasting darkness,” and glared.

“It’s just not particularly plausible.” Finrod wet the quill with his tongue and bent over Celebrimbor’s snoring form. “The anatomy is all wrong – have you never seen a scrotum? – and I think the line work could be more elegant…” He scribbled busily, and Celegorm slumped down to the ground again, pulling Curufin with him.

“You talkin’ dad ‘n’ doom, Curvo?”

“Yes.” Curufin stared into space, his brow furrowed. “But Tyelko, there is one thing you should remember.”

Celegorm rolled his eyes and sprawled flat on the ground. “Death and darkness are inevitable?”

“Those grapes,” said Curufin carefully, rolling the words around on his tongue. “Those grapes were excellent.”


End file.
